In Pieces
by Calenheniel
Summary: [Hans x Elsa.] A collection of drabbles of various shapes and sizes: canon, AU, and all the possibilities inbetween. New prompts of five words or less are accepted at any time; leave your suggestions in the comments!
1. Happy Delusion

**Author's Note: **And now, a new collection of stories based on prompts largely given to me by users on Tumblr. Of course, however, as this is an on-going project, feel free to leave your own prompts in the comments! Submissions should be five words or less.

The following first instalment was based on a 100-word prompt given to me by my good friend **yumi-michiyo**, who's also an excellent Frozen fanfic writer on this website. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Happy Delusion**

"You have to go," she says.

He sighs. "You say that every time."

"And every time I mean it," she tells him.

He smirks. "Until you see me," he reminds her.

She isn't moved. "Until I see you," she repeats, dully.

"Don't I please you, Elsa?" he asks, smoothing his thumb across her lip. "Don't I make you _happy?"_

She cuts him a glare. "Someone like _you _could never make me happy," she snaps.

He grins. "But you haven't pushed me away, yet."

"Only because I know this isn't real," she says.

He smiles. "You can't see your own delusion."


	2. Reincarnated

**Author's Note: **Based on a prompt given by **yumi-michiyo**, the content of which is basically the first two sentences of the fic. Originally written for Day 1 of Helsa Week, the theme of which was "Falling for you."

Bonus points to anyone who can name the film from which I stole a line of dialogue.

* * *

**Reincarnated**

They don't meet by the river.

Rather, they're on opposite ends of it—one washing linens, the other fetching water—and though they can see each other, no words have been exchanged.

The silence between them isn't heavy, nor is it uncomfortable; it simply _is._

He's the first to catch his breath when he overfills his pail by accident, drawing it up with cheeks pinked by embarrassment at his carelessness.

She follows shortly after, glancing at linens that are well-soaked by the babbling water, quickly retrieving them and placing them on the riverbank.

He can't help but glance back at her, if only because her looks are so striking—that blonde hair, nearly white, those large blue eyes—and though his task is done and he should be returning home, he's compelled to stay.

She tries to avert her gaze when she catches his look, fussing with another bit of clothing to be washed, though her eyes travel back to his light green ones, over the fine auburn colour of his hair, and across the broad sweep of his shoulders.

They've never seen anyone like each other before.

Of course, there are plenty of beautiful girls back in his village (though none pay any mind to him as the mayor's youngest son), some of them prettier than her—but there's something in the way her hands fidget that keeps his attention fixed to her, fascinated by the movement.

He's not so unique to her, either—her younger sister has similarly-coloured hair, a splash of freckles across her cheeks, and blue-green eyes, and besides, there are plenty of young men like him back in her town, all vying for her hand in marriage as the heir to the recently-passed governor's vast fortune—but there's something in the way his lips slip into a shy grin that makes her blush despite her best efforts not to.

He wonders who she is.

She wonders if he recognises her.

"Hi," he says finally, waving a little, though he worries that his voice didn't carry across the distance.

"Hi," she replies after a beat, swallowing her hesitation, though she keeps her hands folded in her lap.

He stares inquisitively. "Are you from around here?" he asks.

She looks down. "Sort of," she says.

"I hope you don't mind me saying this, but," he begins, eyeing her curiously, "I'm surprised to see you here, washing sheets, when you're wearing such a fine dress."

"I—I gave the servants the day off," she lies, examining his outfit, "and I'm surprised to see _you _here, gathering water, when you're wearing such a fine shirt."

He blinks, surprised; then, his eyes are tired, and he sighs. "I didn't want to," he explains. "My father forced me to do it."

She freezes, cold; then, her eyes are hard, and she breathes. "Your father," she repeats. "I miss my own."

Their gazes meet.

The silence between them isn't heavy, nor is it uncomfortable; it simply _is._

But they don't understand why.


	3. Pity

**Author's Note: **Co-written with **yumi-michiyo **for Day 2 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "Like fire, like ice."

Based on a prompt given by **pillaicha **on Tumblr: "No prince can rescue her."

* * *

**Pity**

It's hard to believe he's the same person she met at her coronation three years before: all charming smiles, graceful poise, respectful bows.

The only thing indicating as much now is the sharp shadow his profile casts on the stone floor of the cell, though the peak of his brow is furrowed in a dark way.

(Like the way it'd been when he'd swung the sword above her head.)

"Leave us," she says to the guards, stepping over the threshold. When the smell of the putrid air hits her, she regrets her decision to come here, to this _place._

But then, she sees him—his back hunched, his head bowed, clothed in a shirt and pants torn to pieces by weapons whose names she knows, but cannot utter aloud without feeling sick—and the smell fades into the background, because the sight of him is the only thing can think of.

"Hans," she says his name, and it feels foreign on her lips. "What—what have they _done _to you?"

His neck is clearly straining as he greets her blue eyes, and she's taken aback when she realises that he's not surprised to see her.

"Only what a _traitor _deserves, Your Majesty," he returns, though his tone isn't mocking like she expected it to be.

Instead, there's genuine _penitence _there, buried, as is everything else, beneath the layer of grime and scars, and she doesn't know what to make of it.

Because _seeing _those marks, and hearing that defeated voice, she instinctively wants to help him—and even while remembering _why _he has them, she can't help but draw closer to him, place her cold hands on his chained wrists, and hold fast his tight, pained stare.

"_No one _deserves this, Hans," she whispers, and without even realising it, the ice swirls out from beneath her fingertips, thickly encasing his shackles. "Please, let me help you."

He gazes at her wonderingly, and that look makes her heart _thrum _in an unfamiliar way. "Elsa, you shouldn't," he shrinks back from her, "you _can't_—not for someone like me."

His lips press together until they turn white. "Not after what I've done."

She shakes her head, gripping his wrists even more tightly. "I _want _to help you, Hans—so, please," she says, and smiles, "_let_ me—"

The chains _break, _and the sound rattles in her ears, because—

"Did you think you could _rescue _me?" he hisses, squeezing the chain around her neck, his voice reedy from the damp air. "Noble Elsa, _kind _Elsa."

Her fingers scrabble uselessly at him, ice forming in stuttered gasps, and she feels the tears on her cheeks before she realises she's weeping, unable to form words.

His hair blurs into a halo of fire. "You couldn't save anyone, Elsa," he tells her, almost _cooing_, before he crushes his lips to hers—and the tenderness, so at odds with the steel around her throat, is _poison _to her as the world fades to black.

"Not even _yourself_."


	4. Broken

**Author's Note: **Co-written with **yumi-michiyo **for Day 4 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "It's complicated." (And I have it on good authority that she's currently writing a prequel to this drabble, which you can all be assured is going to be incredible!)

Based on a prompt given by **nixreginam **on Tumblr, a most excellent Elsa RP'er: "She's afraid of the ocean." (And there's a second one coming up based on the same prompt, because I loved it so much.)

* * *

**Broken**

He's not scared of the water.

Nor is he scared of the deep, churning blue-black of the sea, its fickle shifts, its unpredictable terrors.

Because to him, it means _freedom._

There's nothing out there—no rank, no expectations, no society—nothing but the salty air and the horizon stretching out beyond sight, beckoning him to the edge of the world.

But she doesn't understand that; she doesn't even try to.

She has many fears, _too _many, but there's one she dreads the most.

"I don't know how you can stand it," she says, looking out on the fjord, her blue eyes unusually sharp today. "It—" she pauses, finding the right word, "it consumes _everything."_

She's sitting on her window-seat, as always, but her gaze has turned distant again, and he has to hold back a sigh at the sight of her.

He can't help her when she gets this way.

"Not everything," he tells her, though he doesn't manage to draw her eyes away from the window, "not _me."_

She smiles lightly. "Yes, you're right," she says, and finally looks at him, taking his gloved hands in her bare ones, small and pale. "It spared you, at least."

He's forced to return the smile lest she realise that anything is amiss. "Then it can't be all bad, can it?"

She drops his hands at that, and he curses himself for the slip-up.

A sigh leaves her lips. "It's easy for you to love it, to _miss _it," she says, and softly pats the epaulettes on his jacket. "It was your whole life, after all."

_And now _you _are, _he thinks, swallowing a grimace, training himself not to flinch at her touch.

"You like the way the water looks when the sky's 'awake,' though—don't you?" he reminds her, using her sister's phrase; as he'd hoped, the word brings out a warm expression on her cold features.

"I do," she admits, her back relaxing. "But that's … _different."_

"Different," he repeats.

She tilts her head to the side. "Yes, it's—not as dark, then," she explains haltingly, "not as _deep."_

The warmth fades from her lips, and the hollow look she wears makes him anxious—but there's a knock on the door before he can think of something to say, and recognising the pattern, he knows it's time.

"I have to leave now, Elsa," he says, placing his hand gently on her shoulder as he rises.

Her eyes are wide, full of _fear, _and her hand desperately grabs his. "No, _please, _please don't go."

He's trying to twist himself out of her grasp as he backs away. "Elsa," he reassures her, "I'll be back tomorrow at the same time—"

"Look, I—I'll wear the gloves!" she begs, drawing the garments from the table nearby, sloppily pulling them on, "I'll be a good girl, I swear!"

His shoulders are trembling as he finally manages to shake her off, stalking towards the door.

"I'll conceal it, Papa! I'll—I'll conceal, I won't _feel, _I won't hurt anyone—**please**!"

It's the last thing she cries out before he shuts the door behind him, though he can hear her wailing just on the other side of it, her figure huddled against the wood, curled into a ball.

Through her sobs, and through the door between them, he just barely makes it out.

_"Please don't shut me out."_

He shudders, clutching his arms against himself.

(There's a young boy inside of him that wants to join her in weeping, but he doesn't.)

Because he can't.

_You broke her, Hans, _he hears Anna's voice again, angry and empty and hoarse from crying. _She's your responsibility, now._

He knows that's not the truth, though he daren't say that aloud; the truth, he thinks, is far worse.

_She was _born _broken._


	5. Distortion

**Author's Note: **Based on an anon prompt for a betrothed Helsa piece and written for Day 4 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "It's complicated."

Special, special thanks to **yumi-michiyo** for suffering through the torturous process of writing and re-writing this piece over the course of two days. I think it turned out well, and all because of her patience and excellent concrit.

* * *

**Distortion**

"I don't want her."

"Nor does anyone else," his brother, the king, replies. "But repeating yourself isn't going to change anything, Hans."

"She's a monster," the prince snaps, scowling. "A _freak of nature._"

The king sighs. "A freak of nature with a _sizeable_ dowry," he reminds him, frowning. "One that could get us out of the many debts our _dearest _father left the kingdom in."

"It's—" he pauses, grinding his teeth, "it's not _fair._"

His brother's brow rises. "Fair?" He laughs, short and harsh. "You're a _prince, _Hans, and you have certain duties that you must fulfil—this has nothing to do with being 'fair.'"

"I'll be laughed at," he returns more quietly, "I'll be _mocked._"

The king sighs again and pats his youngest brother's shoulder, though there's no affection in the gesture.

"You're already laughed at," he says dryly, "and you're already mocked."

The king waves him away after that, as if he's little more than a servant—and he might as well be, as the _thirteenth _in line to a throne he'll never have—and the prince bows perfunctorily, keeping his head ducked as he walks out.

He knows by now when he's not wanted.

* * *

"Your Highness," the steward, a portly man, bows to him in greeting. "Welcome to Arendelle."

He nods back politely, though he doesn't want to; the voyage across the choppy North Sea wasn't a pleasant one, and he'd rather just be shown to his rooms and not see anyone else for the rest of the day.

(Or, better yet, he'd rather go back on the ship, and set sail for somewhere far from that place—and far from home.)

"I'll give you a short tour of the castle, and then show you to your rooms," the man continues, and he follows him through the gates, creaking and heaving as if they haven't been opened in years. "I'll have your luggage unloaded in the meantime."

The steward's courtesy is refreshing after suffering through the rumours and gossip that have followed him here. He can't decide, looking back on them, which were worse: the ones pitying him for his tragic fortune, or those _jeering _at the betrothal of the unlucky thirteenth and the ill-fated firstborn.

He holds in a frown, determining that they're equally irritating.

On the first step to the main doors, tall and imposing and dark, he pauses, finding his voice.

"And when am I to meet the Princess, sir?"

The man freezes, almost as if a cold wind has passed by him, but it's a warm, bright summer's day.

"After dinner, Your Highness," he replies finally, plastering on a smile, and quickly changes topics to the history of Arendelle and its ice trade.

The prince isn't listening.

* * *

"So, you're … from the Southern Isles? What's it like, there?"

He's having dinner with the younger princess—Anna, the _normal _one (or at least as normal as someone can be after being shut away from the world behind those thick, heavy gates)—and up until then, they'd been sitting in awkward silence, he cutting through his food as properly as he could, she picking at hers and anxiously glancing at him between small bites.

"It's …" he stops, and for a second, he can feel the shadow of his brother, the _king_, hovering over his shoulder.

He forces himself to breathe, and then to speak. "It's warm," he says at last; seeing the slight look of disappointment she wears, he attempts a smile. "Warmer than here."

"Anywhere's warmer than _here,_" she mumbles bitterly, and her gaze returns to her plate as she suddenly shudders, a chill seeming to wash over her.

This time, he feels it too.

* * *

As promised, he's led to her quarters—or perhaps it's her _prison_—after dinner ends.

Had that not been the destination, he supposes he might've been relieved to go, if only to escape the suffocating conversation he'd been forced to have with the other princess.

Things being as they are, however, he follows the head housekeeper as she guides him to that room on the second floor of the castle, her hand unsteady as it grips the lantern, and he wonders at how _horrible _this creature he's been betrothed to must be to instil so much terror in the hearts of her own servants.

(And in the hearts of her own parents who'd kept her locked away all these years, he remembers, before their tragic passing at sea.)

They reach the doors, tall and white with floral patterns, though the paint on them is chipping.

"Your Highness," the housekeeper calls with a shaking voice as she knocks on the doors, "Prince Hans is here to see you."

The princess doesn't reply.

"He's come all the way from the Southern Isles, Your Highness," the housekeeper reminds her, though her hands are visibly trembling, now. "He's come _just_ to see you."

There's no answer to that, either, and he expected as much, sighing.

"It's all right," he says tiredly, "I can come back another day—"

There's a croak of a whisper from beyond the door—_let him in_—and for a moment he thinks he's imagining it until the older woman turns to him and nods, cautiously opening the doors, and allows him inside.

He almost doesn't go in, intimidated by the surprisingly wide expanse of the room, but he's over the threshold before he knows it, and the doors are closed behind him.

He doesn't find her straightaway, because he's taken aback—taken aback at how _well-lit _the place is, not at all dark and dank and _putrid _like he thought it would be, after all the stories he's heard and been told—and there's the distinct smell of fresh lilacs filling his senses, rendering him speechless.

"You're … Prince Hans?"

The small voice finally brings his attention to her—_Her Royal Highness, Elsa of Arendelle, the Snow Princess_—and he's once again stunned as he regards the young woman by the window with white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and skin kissed by moonlight.

The young woman, he thinks, who resembles Winter itself.

The young woman who doesn't look like a _monster _at all.

"Yes," he manages, and bows stiffly, "Your Highness. Of the Southern Isles."

She nods back imperceptibly, saying nothing, and seems to shrink into the background.

"We're to be married in a fortnight," he states dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes," she says, "so I've been informed."

There's silence again but for the sound of their breathing, and she stares at him in a way that's slightly unsettling. "You're the youngest of thirteen princes, they say."

His lip curls. "And you're—" _cursed, _he almost sneers, but corrects himself, "—to become queen, they say."

She's obviously uncomfortable at the reminder, because the temperature in the room drops; if something as small as _this _can set her on edge, he muses, it's no wonder that her servants are terrified.

"So they say," she echoes him after a while, though it's still cold, and he can't help but shiver. She retreats further against the wall by the window, her figure half-cloaked by shadow, and she isn't looking at him anymore. "And you're to be my king."

That title—_my king—_should please him more than it does, should make him feel like more than just the unlucky thirteenth, should make him smile at the thought of proving his brothers wrong, of proving _everyone _wrong.

The hollow expression on her face, however, quickly sucks dry whatever triumphs or _ambitions _he might've had; and when she turns her head just enough for the night sky to illuminate the dull glow of her eyes—

His resolve withers, too.

* * *

There are other visits in the days that follow, and always in the evening, after dinner—after he's attempted to be civil with the younger princess (_Anna_, he remembers) and with the staff, learning their names, thinking how they'll be _his _staff soon, too—but it never gets any easier.

There's always something _stilted _about their conversations, the phrases coming out half-formed, the sentences never reaching their natural conclusions. As a man who's used to knowing the right words and when and _how _to say them, it's endlessly frustrating to be in her company.

It doesn't help that time is never of the essence when he's with her, in that room, minutes turning into hours into days; that doesn't stop it, though, from marching on, _slowly, _like one of the vines creeping up the castle's walls, until finally it's the night before they're to be wed, and he still doesn't really know, nor _understand_, the strange creature with whom he is meant to share a bed for the rest of his days after that.

He has some insights into her character, of course: she's more perceptive than she lets on, and _blunter _with her opinions than a princess—no, a future _queen_, he amends—ought to be.

Somehow, he prefers it that way.

* * *

"You don't want me."

She says it with such a dull inflection that he thinks he might've misheard her, at first.

"I—what? Your Highness, I—"

He pauses, looking at her, and he knows there's no point in lying. "No. I don't," he admits; eyeing her curiously, he adds: "Do you? Want me, that is."

"It's not about what I 'want'—what _either _of us 'want.'" She stares at him pointedly. "Isn't that what they told you, too?"

He swallows. "Yes. It is."

She looks away. "And so they sent you away," she says knowingly. "Sent you here, because you're the only one who'd have me."

_I wouldn't, _he almost says, but he knows he doesn't need to. She can already see the words forming in his throat, in the way his Adam's apple bobs uncomfortably at her look.

She seems to hold back a sigh.

"I'm sorry for you," she says.

He doesn't reply, but as he gazes upon her, reclined in her window seat, tracing patterns of frost on the glass separating her from the outside, he allows himself to exhale.

He's sorry for both of them.

* * *

The wedding is a sombre occasion, which is fitting enough, given the circumstances.

Only the princess's closest relations are in attendance—namely, her sister, who's wearing an expression so plaintive it's better-suited to a funeral—as well as the Council members and the higher-ranking domestic staff.

On his side, there's a lone envoy from the Southern Isles—a tall, thin man with a thick beard and a perpetually bored look—and it doesn't surprise him that his brother sent someone he'd never even met before that day.

Towards the back, there is the public—seated on the outskirts or waiting with bated breath outside of the chapel, curious to finally see the Hidden Princess of Arendelle, the _Bane _of Winter—and he's suddenly discomfited by their gestures and whispers and _looks _as they gawk at him, the foreign prince to whom their future queen has been promised. It's more attention than he's ever been paid before, and he's unused to that sea of eyes.

Unused to anyone looking at him with anything but bitter disappointment or derisive dismissiveness.

(He wonders, absently, if she's felt like this, too.)

**"Her Royal Highness, Princess Elsa of Arendelle!"**

There are no cheers or cries of good fortune accompanying the arrival of the princess, dressed in white, her pale face draped with a long veil, as would have been the custom elsewhere.

Instead, it's only the _whispers _following her down the aisle—the aisle that she's walking down alone, her gloved hands shaking even though they hold no flowers.

He supposes he'd find her beautiful, if he could see her without the trappings of that setting, and that _audience_. But he's too distracted by the way she keeps her head bowed as she ascends the stairs to the altar, stands opposite him, and fixes her eyes to the floor.

She's so different, now, from the quiet but assertive young woman he's become acquainted with on long nights spent in shared silence, and even more different still from the _monster_ who once only instilled fear and revulsion in his heart from afar.

The latter of those has never seemed further away than it does as he regards her then, ignoring the droning of the chaplain, the rest of the world fading away into nothing.

In the stillness, she finally raises her gaze to his, and he freezes.

_"You don't want me," _she says so only he can hear, and he can see her lips trembling through the veil that covers them. _"No one does."_

She looks down again, and he breathes—but it's a shuddering breath, a _cold _breath, because now he understands, and he _sees_.

He sees, in her, the same fear that once pulsed through him in his childhood; the same hesitation that once plagued his every step; the same self-loathing that he still possesses, and that's still _crushing _him under its weight.

She's a mirror, he realises, tasting nothing but the stale air of the chapel as he swallows, but not the sort of mirror he's accustomed to—the sort that reflects his image in plain, certain terms.

Instead, he looks distorted—_rotten_—and all that's reflected is his own emptiness.

(His _worthlessness._)

He's even uglier than he imagined.


	6. Lies

**Author's Note: **Apologies for my long absence; life has been crazy. This is based on a prompt given by **yumi-michiyo**: "The lies that bind us." Written for Day 5 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "Secrets, lies and trust."

* * *

**Lies**

It's been a year since she last saw him—_a year,_ she thinks, _and he looks none the wiser for it._

He doesn't know she's there, no, not yet; he's too busy clinking glasses with another man, slightly older, resembling him in more ways than one. She guesses that it's one of his brothers.

It's odd that he seems to get along with the taller man so well, considering what he told her sister on the night of her coronation. Then again, considering what he did and said afterwards, she supposes she shouldn't be surprised that anything he did and said _before _then would hold any truth to it at all.

_You're nothing but a lie._

Her nose wrinkles as she watches him, wondering when he'll notice her, but when he picks up another full glass she gets the feeling that it's going to take him a while.

She allows herself to mingle with the other lords and ladies of the Southern Isles in the meantime, to have a drink or two, to glance at him from time to time, her hatred for him _festering. _If she's going to be forced to be diplomatic with the very people whose traitorous relation tried to kill her, she'll damn well make sure she enjoys it.

Somewhere between her second and third glass, she loses track of him.

She breathes out the smallest of curses, quiet enough to go unheard, as she excuses herself from the group—but she only manages to get as far as the balcony before she sighs, thinks _God, what are you _doing, _Elsa?, _shakes her head, and begins retracing her steps back towards the ballroom.

**"Your Majesty."**

She stops, her hand falling to her side, and she looks up.

"Hans."

His cheeks are pink from the champagne, but she knows hers are worse—and that wouldn't matter much, normally, except for the fact that the ice isn't _pulsing _through her as naturally as it should, and she scowls, hating herself, and hating _him, _because—

_You _knew _this would happen._

"You lied," she says, unable to hold back the words. "About _everything."_

He takes a step towards her, and she wishes she weren't so terrified of him—of the playful smirk on his lips, the refined point of his teeth, the darkness in his eyes which is so unlike either of those, but mirrors her own—because she can't step backward, afraid that she'll topple over, _crumple _in front of this man.

"Perhaps I did," he admits, and his hand brushes against her cheek, which grows cold at the touch of his gloved fingers. He chuckles. "But everyone lies, Queen Elsa—even _you_."

Her throat is hot at the accusation, and she wants to tell him he's wrong, but she remembers it as well as he does—spiteful words exchanged in secret, a stolen kiss, that hateful embrace, those same, gloved fingers _pulsing _inside of her—and the retort dies on her lips.

Because she lied to Anna, too.


	7. Fear

**Author's Note: **Also based on the prompt given by **nixreginam **on Tumblr: "She's afraid of the ocean." An AU piece written for Day 6 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "I'm scared."

* * *

**Fear**

"Are you all right, Miss?"

She looks out from under her heavy cloak, her eyes nervous, wondering from whence that voice came.

When they find the source, her breath catches in her throat before her mouth can form a reply.

"I—I'm fine," she stutters, snapping her teeth together in embarrassment. "I just—I wanted to see the sky when it's awake," she finishes quietly, and looks up at the dancing colours above.

She hopes that they're not illuminating her features too much—or, if they are, that he doesn't recognise her.

_He probably does, _she thinks, grimacing, _because _everyone _knows, don't they?_

Though the man in the white and blue uniform with the red cravat doesn't give any indication that he does, she can feel his light green eyes on her, and she can't bring herself to meet his stare, afraid that he'll see how pink her cheeks are.

"Are you from around here?" he asks, and finally she glances at him, though one glimpse of his thick auburn hair is enough to make her skin turn a deep scarlet.

She swallows, her gloved hands twisting together. "From the cas—from the town, yes," she corrects herself, biting her lip. "But usually I—I'm not allowed out this late."

_Or allowed out at all._

He smiles. "I see," he says, and takes a step towards her. Now he's standing beside her at that dark edge of the port, sheltered by the roof of a long-closed storefront overhead, and both are looking out onto the fjord.

The water is green, and blue, and _glowing, _and she only wishes she had the courage to share it with the only person in her life who still matters to her—but she doesn't, and she doesn't know if she'll _ever_ have it, and so she contents herself with the company of this man.

This _stranger._

"It's beautiful," he says, and her hands tighten.

"And _cold," _she adds in just above a whisper, drawing his bright gaze to hers.

"Are you—" he pauses, "afraid of it? The ocean?"

Her face blanches at the question, because it's so sudden, and it _strikes _her at her very core.

_You couldn't save them, Elsa._

"I—" she starts, and stops, her tongue too limp to go on.

_No one could._

She closes her eyes for a moment; when she opens them, the truth follows.

"Yes. I'm afraid."

He's quiet when he speaks again. "It terrified me too, at first," he admits, and she blinks at him in surprise, "when I started training. I had some terrible nights at sea."

He meets her look with a small smile. "But that's the thing about it—it takes everything away," he murmurs. "Your worries, your fears, your past—and when those are gone," he tells her, "you can start over again."

Her eyes widen, and her lips part as if to speak—but she can't, because the words are too painful to utter.

_And it'll take you away, too._


	8. Martyr

**Author's Note: **Not really a Helsa piece so much as an Elsa piece. Whatever. Based on a prompt given by **yumi-michiyo**: "She's a martyr to time." Written for Day 6 of Helsa Week on Tumblr: "I'm scared." This is the last of the Helsa week prompts; after this, I'll work on the ones you all have kindly sent me via the comments.

* * *

**Martyr**

No one speaks of it, but they don't need to—she already knows.

_Our poor Queen, so alone._

_Our kind Queen, so wounded._

_Our beautiful Queen, so feared._

She can see it in the faces of her councillors, hear it in the whispers of the commoners, feel it in the gentle brushes of the courtiers' gloved hands against her shoulders.

_Her Majesty, the martyr to Time._

It doesn't matter that she's managed this long alone, nor that she's fulfilled her duties in spite of her wounds, nor even that the people love her though she once was feared.

It doesn't matter because it's not _correct._

But then, nothing about her has ever been "correct"—not the whiteness of her hair, nor the ice and snow which she conjures, nor her very birth—and with this in mind, she is able to ignore their faces, whispers, and brushes.

All, that is, except one.

_Don't be the monster they fear you are._

It's been years since then, and so much has happened since; still, those words are engraved in every part of her being, reminding her of who she is and of whom she nearly became.

_Monster._

The title doesn't hold as much power as it once did, if only because she knows that all of that's behind her. She doesn't want to drag the past into the present like she always used to.

But she knows that others will—they can't help it—and so she's forced to confront what she never was, and never wanted to be.

_Her Majesty, the Snow Queen._

He was different from them—unafraid, calm, patient—and she can't believe, even after everything that's happened, that he was the same man who held a sword over her head and swung it down.

A man whose face she remembers with perfect clarity.

There's no reason why she should; after all, he'd intended nothing but harm, and he's suffering for it in a place she'll never go to, somewhere on the other side of the North Sea.

_Don't be the monster they fear you are._

It shouldn't even strike her as a notable turn-of-phrase, now—not when her people have accepted her, love her, _cherish _her, not when she's finally mended her broken bond with her sister, and not when she's entering her tenth year of peaceful rule.

Then, she remembers the things she tries to ignore—the faces, the whispers, the brushes—and her hands fidget, seeking gloves she's long since discarded.

Sometimes, she can catch herself when she's like this, calm herself, forget.

Other times, it's not so easy.

_There is beauty in your magic—but also great danger._

During those times, her recollections of her childhood, her adolescence, and even her adulthood are tinged by a strange redness—by a fear that she once concealed, and faced, but which never really went away.

_Monster._

She's only tried to protect them all by being alone, wounded, _feared_—but they don't understand.

She knows they never will.


	9. Scars

**Author's Note**: Based on a prompt of the same name given by SamAnderson in the reviews section.

* * *

**Scars**

_You're _nothing_ to me._

A sharp pain shoots through her wrists as she awakens—and then, there's nothing but the touch of his gloved hand against her cheek, pressing it softly.

"Elsa."

She's gotten used to hearing him say it like that, as if they're old friends; she supposes, in a way, that they are, now.

(Not that she ever responds—no, there's no need, because he's always done enough talking for the both of them.)

"How are you this morning?"

She closes her eyes again as his fingers move from her cheek to trace the outline of her lips. The feeling of his hands on her used to make her shiver, but it's been months – _years_ – and she doesn't shift an inch.

He doesn't sigh anymore at her silence, either. "Your kingdom is faring well, in spite of a rather chilly spring season," he informs her as his hand snaps back to his side. "There shouldn't be any adverse effect on the shipments from Odens coming in on time, anyway. I heard relations with Weselton might even be resumed, as well."

She can't help but glance at him at this, and though she keeps her gaze dull, he sees right through her, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Princess Anna is always full of surprises, isn't she?" he remarks, and a flicker of _something_ must have flashed across her eyes, because he's back at her side in an instant, his lips hovering too close to hers.

_I never want to see you again._

That familiar ache returns to her hands, and soon, it's running down her wrists and forearms with blinding speed, searing her skin until she winces.

He looks down at her clenching fists sympathetically, his brows furrowed. "Oh, my Queen," he chides, taking one of her hands in his own, "how many times do I have to tell you?"

She bites her lip to keep from moaning in pain as he presses the inside of her palm. "You know they'll never heal if you _insist _on struggling."

A hint of a feeling pulses inside of her – hatred, perhaps – but it's gone before she can let it course through her veins, turn her stomach, curl her lips.

"You're trying to be good—I can see that," he says, loosening his grip. The pain subsides immediately. "You've been trying for a while, now."

She isn't looking at him then, but it's not because doing so would give him too much pleasure (she knows it would).

It's the enchanted chains of pure fire round her wrists that keep her staring ahead—the same ones that broke her skin, and that are breaking it still.

_You belong there, in those dungeons, with him_ _watching over you; at least he can bear to _look_ at you._

His green eyes meet hers – the only eyes she's seen in so many years, aside from her own – and as they force her to see him, she holds back a sigh.

Because Anna was right.


	10. Something

**Author's Note: **Based on a prompt from MarcelineFan in the reviews section: "She hadn't expected this danger."

Also the prequel to another instalment in this series, "Lies_._"

* * *

**Something**

"The Queen of Ice and Snow."

A grimace touches her lips, and her fingers curl around the hedge that surrounds them.

"Hans."

She's heard the rumours in Arendelle about the triumphant return of the poison-tongued prince to the court of the Southern Isles – they were too widespread to ignore, really – but she's always assumed that they were nothing more than that.

It wasn't until she'd spotted him standing in the centre of the crowded ballroom that evening, his gait not unlike a strutting peacock, that she had begun to believe it could all be real—that _he _could be real.

(And that he could take some form beyond the edges of her nightmares.)

Seeing him standing so triumphantly and brazenly in front of her now, though, is another thing altogether; the garden maze is quiet and dark and impenetrable, a world away from the champagne and roses of the ballroom, and her hands tense painfully inside of her gloves.

Her lips are thin and pressed together so tightly that when she speaks, she surprises herself.

"You're alone."

"I don't have _minders, _no, if that's what you're asking," he replies. "I've been deemed as part of respectable society these days, as you can see."

Her head snaps up, and the scowl she wears matches the one Anna wears whenever _he's_ brought up in conversation. "It seems that what counts as 'respectable society' here is _quite _different from anywhere else I've been."

"Quite," he mocks her with a smirk, flexing his hands within his own, impeccably white gloves as her blue eyes harden. "And what about you, Your Majesty? Don't you have any … 'minders' to accompany your every move?"

Her hands curl into fists, but she doesn't notice the lack of ice trails beneath her feet, nor the absence of snow flurries circling overhead. "I told my _guards _that I needed a moment outside to myself," she tells him with reddening cheeks, and she's not sure why she's saying anything to him at all. "I didn't expect that I would have company."

He smiles. "Oh, you'll _always _have company at court here, whether you like it or not," he says, and it makes her face, already hot from drink, boil. "Even the walls have ears here—which must be unusual for you, as I'm sure your lords and ladies of Arendelle are far more respectful of their Queen's privacy."

"They are **not**," she snaps—and then she is mortified at the look of surprise he wears at those unguarded words, feeling sick, and turns away from him.

She falls silent until the sensation passes, and then, softly, she repeats it.

"They are not."

He pauses. "They are not," he echoes, and adds after a beat: "Of course they are not."

Hearing him say it brings to her an odd sense of comfort—something she did not expect, nor want to feel, on this particular visit.

(And certainly not with _this _particular person.)

"I should kill you for what you've done, Hans," she spits suddenly, though there's no ice crawling along the sides of the hedges in the maze, nor any making its way through the veins of the flame-haired prince, his olive eyes fixed on her.

"And you have every right to, by the laws of your land and my own," he agrees, "but you won't."

She laughs hoarsely after her initial shock subsides. "And why is that? Because I'm 'not a monster'?"

His expression is impassive. "You're not," he affirms, and this time the heat that rises in her face is not unfamiliar to her—but one that she has not felt in a long, long time. "But that's not why."

Her throat constricts at the sober look he's giving her, and she can't _stand _how it reminds her suddenly of that day on the mountain – of ice daggers sharp enough to kill, her anger, his appeal to her humanity – nor of how she's never forgiven herself for it since.

"What is it, then?" she shoots back, shaking off the thought. "Tell me, Hans, since you seem to know me _so_ well."

He takes a single step towards her, and she flinches. "You won't kill me," he begins, his hands placed neatly behind his back, "because you don't want to or need to—because you're not afraid of me anymore."

She blinks uncomprehendingly.

_I'm … not afraid of him?_

The mere idea had not occurred to her until he'd said it, and yet – the more she looks at him, bears his presence, _feels _his eyes take her in – she cannot deny it any more than she could tear her gaze from his.

"That's why you can stand there now without calling for your men," he continues, "and that's why I haven't seen a single snowflake in all this time we've been here."

"No," she says, abruptly realising it herself. "That's because I've had too much to drink."

His eyes widen, and then that awful smirk reappears—the one that makes her remember why she _hates _him.

"Her Majesty is … intoxicated?"

"Yes," she says with a fierce glower, regretting every word as it leaves her lips. "'Her Majesty' is drunk."

"And with no man to watch over her but me," he teases in a low voice that makes her shudder (though she doesn't understand why).

She ignores the feeling and moves to leave. "There will be some here shortly, I assure you," she promises him, glaring. "Goodbye, Hans—"

**"Wait!"**

She stops.

"I didn't mean to offend you—no more than my presence already does, that is," he adds, and though she doesn't look at him, she can hear the smile behind his words. "I was just surprised at how honestly you spoke to me just then, that's all."

"Don't expect it to happen again," she rebuts, though her voice is soft, barely heard above the din of the ball inside the palace.

"I wouldn't."

She's shocked to feel a hot breath brush against her ear, his words ringing in her skull as his hand closes over hers, pulling her gloves off so easily that it's like slipping into a dream.

"What are you—" she starts, but her words get lost in her throat when he nips at the nape of her neck, his hands caressing her bare fingers until she's burning.

"_Shh," _he chides her, pressing her back to his front until she _feels _him against her so keenly that she chokes, pulsing.

"Ha—" she tries to say his name, though it tastes of a stilted curse leaving her lips as his gloved hands lift up her dress. "Hans—"

He places one hand over her mouth to quiet her as the other traces the inside of her thighs longingly—as if he's been waiting an age to touch her.

(And her legs, trembling, make her wonder if she's been waiting, too.)

"They don't understand, do they, my Queen?" he asks her, his lips soft against her ear. "They say they love you, that they forgive you, that you're really one of them—but you never will be, will you?"

A single finger slips inside of her, and she moans, her head spinning. "You won't be, because you _can't _be—because you're different, you're **special**, Elsa."

Her name sounds beautiful and horrible to her then, but she is mute.

She aches, wants, _needs _something so viciously from this that she lets him talk, lets him pour his vileness into her mind as he puts a second finger inside of her, _deeper._

"But _I _understand—_I _know what that feels like," he goes on, and _ah, _she thinks, _there's the rub_—and she's never hated him more than in that instant, but that hate is mixed up with the heat swelling inside of her, and she's intoxicated by it all in a way that she hasn't been since she turned her kingdom into ice. "_I _know what it is that you want, and what you've always wanted."

She gasps, and his hand slides away from her mouth as the other picks up in pace, her fingers digging into his arm through his jacket. "You don't understand _anything_," she says hoarsely, almost unintelligibly.

He kisses her ear, and silences her again. "You want them to accept you," he continues as if she hadn't interrupted, his fingers never slowing. "You want them to see you for who you are—for _what _you are."

That incredible heat is building up inside of her to a point that is almost painful, and her breathing grows shallow as he tightens his grip around her quivering torso, his fingers relentless within her.

"But _I _see you, Elsa—I see you."

She stutters at the pronouncement, and then everything is still.

_I see __you, Elsa._

Something is breaking inside of her – shattering into a thousand pieces of glass (just like his sword did when it hit Anna's frozen form), and then reforming into something else, something _new_ – but she can't find and doesn't know the words to describe such things, because it's not love, nor hope, nor trust, nor even happiness.

_I __**see **__you._

She staggers, but he's not there to hold her steady anymore; in fact, he's not there at all, and there's no trace of him ever having been there but for the deep, indefinable numbness that sits in her chest like a crystal, threatening to break apart again at the slightest touch.

She swallows, and when she hears herself speak, she doesn't know what to make of the relief in her voice.

"Hans," she says, "I see you, too."


	11. Monster

**Author's Note**: Based on a prompt from Pauline in the reviews section: "Monster."

* * *

**Monster**

There's no one left—no one except her.

(And him.)

_I'm the monster,_ she says, looking at her hands, trails of ice blooming along her fingertips. _I'm the monster in the book._

He doesn't have to ask which book; there's only one.

_That's a fairy tale,_ he says half-heartedly, as if that's any consolation. _You can still bring back summer._

She can't look at him, because looking back means she has to look at what she's done—but she knows what's there nevertheless.

_Don't you see?_ she asks him, choking on a sob. _I can't._

He takes a step towards her, and it's one step too close.

She recoils, but she doesn't hurt him. (She's not sure why she didn't, then or now.)

_You can't let me go,_ she tells him desperately, smelling death all around her, desiring her own.

_I will do what I can,_ she hears him say from behind her, closer again, his voice heavy as the grave.

Her palms are flat against the floor of her palace, against the cracks running across it and up the walls, fracturing the teetering chandelier above.

She swears she can see the blood seeping into them, running in little rivers from bodies suspended in mid-air by ice.

(No—by her _curse_.)

And she wants it to end.


	12. Breathe

**Author's Note**: My interpretation of a prompt from Pauline in the reviews section: "War."

* * *

**Breathe**

There's no air here  
Nothing but water—rushing, closing  
Light travels down and disappears into darkness  
Her lips scarcely part but are filled with a deep warmth  
Eyes struggling and breathing ragged, choking, all soon to end  
A strangled cry in her throat, and then she can see again, she can see—  
And she can feel him inside, heavy, deep, warm like a dull flame  
Her lips wrenched apart but slick with want, smooth  
Light glimmers in his eyes and matches his smirk  
Nothing but him—pounding, pulsing  
There's no air here.


	13. Confession

**Author's Note**: Based on a prompt from Pauline in the reviews section: "Three words." (You might think of it as a sequel to the first drabble in this series, "Happy Delusion.")

* * *

**Confession**

"Say it."

"No."

He expected her to deny it; she always does.

He pulls her in until her back is flush against his chest and he can feel the sinews of her muscles pulsing, _aching_.

She doesn't resist. "This isn't going to change anything," she informs him.

He nods. "Of course."

She bites her bottom lip, and he can tell she's trying not to glance back at him. "I want you gone as soon as this is over."

"I know," he says. The arrangement hasn't changed.

_But _she_ has._

His hands trace lines up her arms, across her shoulder blades, and curl around her neck.

He smiles against her ear. "But I still want you to say it," he murmurs.

Her breath hitches, and his fingers are warm on her throat. "Not even in your dreams," she says, swallowing.

He enjoys the challenge of her stubbornness, so much like his own. In fact, he's sure it's why he's so determined to make her say those three little words: to break her, to _bind _her.

"Oh, but you say it in my dreams all the time, Elsa," he teases, his grip around her neck tightening as he draws her even closer. "You come to me, and you _beg _for me, and you—"

"I would _never _beg," she interrupts through a gasp, suddenly finding her voice again. "Not for you. Not for _anyone_."

"No, you wouldn't," he agrees, loosening his hold on her, his right hand drifting to caress her side. "It was only a dream."

"That's right," she shudders, "just a dream. Nothing more."

His smile widens as her whole body seems to quake under his light touch; it's gotten even worse than he'd suspected.

His fingers flex and massage her throat. "I wouldn't want you to beg, anyway," he lies. "That's not like you."

She lays her head back against his shoulder, her eyes closed, eyebrows knitted in frustration. "Don't pretend like you know me," she says tiredly, the castigation carrying none of its former venom.

He holds back a grin. "I wouldn't—that's not part of our deal, remember?" he reminds her. "'Knowing' each other, that is."

He kisses her earlobe, and she moans, arching against him.

"I—I remember," she pants.

He understands well what she's trying to do - what she's asking him to do for her, _to _her - but he keeps his left hand on her throat and the other on her side, his fingers only brushing the skin in both places.

_So close, now._

"Good," he says, and rewards her with another kiss, this time to her neck.

Her body radiates an unusual heat, and finally her eyes snap back open to look at him, bright and fierce. "What are you doing?" she demands hoarsely. "Why aren't you—"

She can't bring herself to say it; he swallows the smirk that threatens to surface.

"Why aren't I ... what, my Queen?"

Her expression twists into that remarkable combination of confusion, irritation, and lust that he so admires, and it almost makes him want to give up the game.

"Don't toy with me, Hans," she threatens, scowling. Her small hands come to cover his as she turns to face him, her fingers tightening over them. "You know what I want."

He winces a little at the icy cold that runs across his skin, but he's learned not to retreat from her when she gets like this.

He collects himself instead, and presses her even more firmly against him. "Then tell me," he replies, intentionally lowering his voice, "tell me what it is that you _want_, Elsa."

The cold subsides as her pulse quickens under his grip, her heart racing against his, and he nearly breathes a sigh of relief.

Her eyes remain fixed on him.

"Say it."

He expects her to deny it; she always does.

Instead, she's mute, and as she draws his hand away from her neck and brings it up to her lips, kisses the inside of his palm, and her eyes close—

He knows he's won.

"I want you."


	14. Envy

**Author's Note: **Based on a prompt from Hiromi in the reviews: "All I ever wanted" (and also inspired by a conversation with my best friend). I imagine this taking place at the end of the film, prior to Hans's return to the Southern Isles in shame.

* * *

**Envy**

He's surprised to see her when the door opens, though perhaps he shouldn't be.

He bows his head in greeting, but doesn't move from where he's sat on the wooden bench inside of his cell.

(He's sure she wouldn't expect him to, anyway.)

"To what do I owe this great honor, Your Highness?"

She stares at him - not with the barely-controlled, seething rage he's expecting, but rather as if _appraising _him for a market - and sitting in his torn and stained white jacket, he's suddenly feeling more than a little self-conscious.

Her blue dress is clean and bright in the sunlight beyond the bars. "You're very bold," she says at length. "Irritatingly so."

His brow perks up - _was that a compliment?_ \- though he hides his bemusement with a shrug. "It's easy to be bold when you've got nothing to lose."

Her gaze narrows in incredulity. "Nothing to lose?"

He sighs. "You don't believe me—I can see that," he begins. "After all, how could I - a _prince _\- have nothing to lose? What about my titles, my reputation, my future?" He laughs derisively, catching her off-guard. "Yes, there was some of that ... but not enough to make me good," he continues, "not enough to make me _weak_."

Her eyes are cold. "And you equate goodness with weakness, I suppose."

He shrugs again. "Not necessarily," he replies, "but when goodness gets in the way of what I want, then yes—I see it as a weakness."

"Being a villain didn't get you what you wanted, either," she points out, her arms crossing in front of her.

He finally rises from the bench, stretching a little. "No, it didn't," he agrees. Meeting her eyes after a moment, he adds: "But at least I gave it a chance."

She regards him even more icily than before, and he swallows a smile, putting on a resigned look instead. "Ah, well. That's all done now. I suppose you'll be having me shipped back to the Southern Isles soon, Your Majesty?"

"The French ambassador has offered his services in that capacity, yes," she answers succinctly. "You'll be transported back to your family tomorrow morning."

He breathes a false sigh of relief. "Oh, good," he mocks, "I'm sure they'll be _thrilled _to see me, the 'Unlucky Thirteenth.'"

Her lips press together tightly at the nickname; he sees that she's guessed at its origin already, having probably been filled in on his background by her advisers after his criminal actions.

The idea annoys him, as does her slightly pained expression—it looks too much like pity.

He puts on his cruellest smile. "We're not so different, are we, Elsa?" he asks, catching a warning look from her at the suggestion. "Both unwanted by our parents, left to fend for ourselves, rejected by our own people for reasons out of our control—why, it's uncanny, really."

Her gaze is oddly neutral as he speaks; he assumes she's waiting until he's finished to freeze him into an ice statue, and so he goes on, digging deeper.

"And we both tried to find our own place, didn't we? We both just wanted to feel ... _accepted._"

He is done, and she is silent - still staring at him intensely, her muscles taut, her lips pursed - but maddeningly silent.

(He wonders if she's testing him in her own way, like he is her, but he doubts she's capable of that.)

"We're not."

He blinks. "What?"

She pauses. "We're not so different, you and I," she repeats, slower this time. "That's true."

He feels his jaw lower slightly, and he has to fight his instinct to gape.

"So ... you agree with me?"

Her arms uncross, and her expression becomes unreadable. "In a way, yes," she confirms, "but there's more to it than that."

She's peaked his interest; there's no point in hiding that fact.

"Go on," he says.

She draws a step closer to the bars, and so does he. "I'm ... not what my people want," she says, and with a candidness that has him struggling to maintain his composure. "I never have been, and I never will be."

When she goes quiet again after this, he feels compelled to encourage her to speak (though he has an inkling of what she will say next).

"And why is that, do you think?"

Her eyes seem to turn the color of stone as she continues. "It's obvious, being the way I am, that I will never marry; I am fated to be alone, and to rule alone," she states bluntly. "And even with my cur—_powers_," she corrects herself with gritted teeth, "without a husband, my rule will always be questioned ... especially after what just happened."

She glances out of the cell window onto the glittering fjord, just recently a sea of ice, oddly without feeling.

"They will never fully trust me."

It's just what he expected her to say, though he's still intrigued upon hearing it. "Things were much easier up on the North Mountain, weren't they?" he asks knowingly, if not with a touch of actual sympathy.

She turns her attention back to him. "Of course they were," she retorts, adding in a softer tone: "But I didn't have the courage to finish what I started—not like you."

He stares at her in surprise. "Like me?"

She looks at his hands, still covered - though the gloves are, like everything else about him, ghosts of their former selves - and he suddenly feels the need to draw them behind his back, away from her penetrating stare.

"Yes—you didn't have any doubts, or at least none great enough to keep you from following through with your plans," she clarifies, and he swears he can see a glint of admiration flash across her blue irises. "You knew what you wanted from the beginning, and you went after it with a single-minded purpose."

She pauses, though is clearly unfazed by his stunned look as she observes: "And that is where we are different, I suppose."

He moves to reply, but finds himself unable to offer anything more substantive than a short, quiet—

"Oh?"

Her gaze turns indubitably contemptuous as she considers him again, and a rock forms in his throat. "Of course, there is another critical difference, Hans—and that is that you failed, _miserably _so, in achieving what you so desired," she states, and her tone is somewhat reflective as she continues in his silence. "I may have as well, to some extent; however, I still have my head, my crown, and my kingdom," she reminds him, "and you have nothing."

He swallows audibly, and his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. "Correction, Queen Elsa: I still have my head."

Her smile is cold, matching the temperature in the cell, and he shudders.

"And I suggest you hold onto it."


	15. Reminder

**Author's Note**: Based on a prompt from MarcelineFan in the reviews section: "Things haven't changed."

* * *

**Reminder**

There's something oddly comfortable about the cell; she supposes it's because it feels like her old room.

_It's just as cold, _she thinks, _but not as spacious._

She's traced patterns of ice along the floors and walls like she used to as a child, though the ones she creates now are more complex.

(Not that anyone is around who would appreciate that fact—not now, and not before.)

_Or ever again_.

She hears the door open, and doesn't flinch this time at the creaking sound it makes as it closes.

"How is Her Majesty?"

His voice is as light and carefree as on the day they first met, Anna's hand in his, asking for her blessing.

_It feels like a lifetime away._

"Tired," she admits. "I'm so tired, Hans."

"You've been through a lot," he says, nodding. His hand comes to rest on the hilt of his sword. "Too much."

(For a moment, she believes that the empathy in his voice might be real.)

"I miss her," she continues, wondering if that might be a bridge too far, but his expression is calmer than ever.

"Of course you do," he agrees. "It's only natural."

She shakes her head, and then her hands become unsteady; she's glad that she's not wearing the chains anymore, so she doesn't have to hear them rattling.

"I don't have the right," she says, weeping. "I was never a real sister to her. I wasn't there for her when she needed me, and now—"

_I can't be there for her, because she's not here._

"You didn't mean to hurt her, Elsa," he says, shuddering from the cold.

"But I did."

He pauses.

"But you did."

Her tears subside in the silence that follows, and finally, her lips stop trembling.

_You hurt her._

She looks out the tiny window of the cell onto the frozen fjord beyond, but she can still see his reflection in the ice along the bars over it.

"I'm scared," she says, curling up against the wall.

He smiles.

"It'll be over soon."

She recognises the sound of steel unsheathing, of a hand tightening over a hilt, of heavy footsteps.

It reminds her of her father.


	16. Words

**Author's Note: **Based on a prompt from SamAnderson: "Words I never said." Inspired also by the beautiful painting "Dream Of The Rain" by Leonid Afremov on deviantArt. (You may consider this a possible, surreal epilogue to _Strangers_; I would also call this my most personal piece to date, as I wrote it while going through a very difficult time emotionally.)

* * *

**Words**

She's surprised when she hears the tapping of rain on the windows.

It's unusual to see it in early spring, much less for there to be a downpour like the one that ensues; in fact, it's rare enough that the entire Council pauses for a minute to observe the storm outside in the midst of yet another discussion about a trade dispute with Weselton.

(Or perhaps it was Odens, or Madris—she'd stopped listening a long while ago.)

Even when they resume the meeting, it goes on for much longer than anyone could have anticipated, eventually turning into gentler showers.

She can't help but be drawn to the sight as she goes from one appointment to the next, glancing up during pauses in conversation and in-between signing letters pushed in front of her. Even the excited shouts of her teenage nephews as they engage in their countless competitions around the palace (poorly contained these days by an elderly Kai and Gerda) are not enough to distract her entirely, though they occasionally earn from her a lightly disapproving look or a barely-hidden smile of amusement.

In any case, she's sure that it'll be over by nightfall, and is disappointed at the idea that she won't get to go out and experience it herself; she rarely does these days.

But it goes on and on, right into the evening.

* * *

"I'm going for a walk," she announces to Gerda.

The older woman stares at her in surprise - she's only just finished getting her ready for bed, and her light blonde tresses flow freely behind her back, her face unmarked by cosmetics, clothed only in her evening robes - and frowns.

"In this rain, Your Highness?"

The queen smiles.

"In this rain."

* * *

There's a wonderful sense of freedom in the drops that patter against her cheeks and forehead as she steps out of the castle, her feet treading lightly along the stone path from the guardsmen's door at the gates.

She draws her cloak a little closer around her face as she nears the street lamps; though she loves her people, she cannot afford to lose this chance for privacy.

Not that there are many of them around to see her—the late hour, combined with the rain, has made sure of that.

She can't remember the last time she went unaccompanied like this somewhere, let alone into the city, and certainly never in the rain. She's glad she did, though, as she takes in the dim glow of the lamps and the warm colours they cast on the cobblestone streets below - the reds and yellows of flickering flames, the dark greens of the trees, the cool blues from the fjord - and she's sure she hasn't seen something so beautiful in many, many years.

(Not since—)

Her heart stops when she catches sight of him, and the rain turns to hail.

"Hans."

He appears to her just as he did the last time she saw him - like a phantom passing in the night - and in the blur of the rain, and lights, and _snow_, she assumes, just as before, that he is nothing more than a vision.

Until he speaks.

"Elsa."

* * *

They find a bench in an empty market stall, once the initial shock of their meeting has passed; the hail has turned back to rain, and it drums lightly against the tile roof overhead.

Her fingers twist around themselves in her lap, and she dares not raise her eyes from them to look at him.

(She can tell, though, that he's glancing at her from time to time from where he's sat next to her, his hands similarly knotted together.)

"You're not in Odens," she says at length.

He sighs (in relief, it seems) at the break in the silence. "No, I'm not."

"You're here," she continues, "in Arendelle."

"I'm here," he confirms, "again."

Her brow tenses, but she releases her fingers to rest atop her thighs lightly. "I won't ask why," she says, adding: "I'm not sure you know, anyway."

"You're probably right," he agrees after a moment, and she knows he's looking at her. "Even if I did," he continues, "I'm not sure it matters."

She breathes.

"No, it doesn't."

* * *

There is so much silence in the seconds, minutes, _hours_ that follow - so much more, she thinks, than the last time - and she isn't sure if it bothers her, or if she prefers it.

In that quiet space, she tries to remember how long it's been, exactly, since she last saw him; she guesses it's been years, but it feels much longer than that.

(Like forever.)

"You left," he says finally, his voice strained.

She closes her eyes. "I left," she echoes.

He pauses, and then sighs. "I knew you would," he admits. "I always knew you would, and yet ... I thought for a second that maybe, somehow, you would stay."

"I couldn't," she tells him. "You knew that."

He's staring at her again. "I knew that," he concurs, "but I didn't want to believe it. Not after..."

He trails off, and finally, she looks at him.

He looks so much older than she remembers - grey hairs fraying in his sideburns, his skin burnished and aged from sunlight, his green eyes full of unspoken regrets - and yet, at the same time, he hasn't changed at all.

(And his hand meets hers among blades of grass under the stars and moon above, their fingers intertwining, and for a moment only they two can exist in the face of the wide, endless, sparkling sea—)

She shudders, and remarks: "That was a long time ago."

"It was," he concurs, and she can't take her eyes away from him. "But I remember everything. Do you, Elsa?"

She hesitates; then, she nods.

"I remember."

He presses his hand to hers, and she weeps.

* * *

"I'm sorry that I didn't give you - _us_ \- a chance," he says when her tears have subsided, his hand still holding hers. "I only realised what you meant after you were already gone."

She shakes her head. "It's all right," she says, her voice soft. "I should never have said that in the first place."

He frowns. "No, Elsa—you were right," he counters. "I was a fool then, and I still am."

"You're not a fool," she tells him. "But nothing can change the past."

His grasp tightens. "No," he agrees, "but you have to know, Elsa ... you have to know that I never wanted it to be like this."

She sighs; even to her, it sounds like defeat.

"And what did you want, Hans?"

He stares at her with an earnestness that reminds her of his younger self, and if she wasn't sure that he was an illusion, she might've felt her heart stir again in that moment—at that look.

"I only ever wanted you."

She smiles sadly.

"No, Hans," she says, "you wanted everything."


	17. Inconsolable

**Author's Note: **Based on a prompt from Naiely in the reviews: "Waste of time." (I imagine it as an outtake from _Fractures_ from Hans's POV, though it's obviously open to interpretation.)

* * *

**Inconsolable**

_I've been searching my whole life to find my own place._

He turns to look out the window from where he lays on the bed, his hands cradling his head, and breathes.

_Arendelle._

The fjord, which used to positively glitter with possibilities to him, now blends in with the dark sky above into one, long night.

_You have _nothing _to offer me._

The moon briefly shines a light on the water through the clouds, but the sight does not fill him with wonder; he has long since abandoned all hope that he could ever feel such a thing again.

_And I have nothing to offer in return._

His stomach tenses at the sound of a sigh, his arms flexing beneath him, and he turns his stony gaze towards the ceiling.

_But I could have._

He remembers his life before this, or at least the vague outline of it - his miserable childhood in the Southern Isles, his formative years spent learning how to scheme and sneak around at court, his entrance into adulthood through his naval career - and he misses his hard-won victories out at sea in spite of the wretchedness of living on ships for months at a time.

_At least there, I had a chance of becoming something more than this._

Another sigh, and he has to grit his teeth behind sealed lips to keep from scowling. If he wonders at anything at all these days, it is at how he ended up here.

"Hans."

_With _her.

"_Hans_," she repeats his name more fervently this time, her breathing ragged as she rakes her nails down his front, gripping his torso to keep herself steady.

He doesn't answer, because he knows she isn't expecting him to, and she doesn't need him to.

_She only needs me for one thing_.

She picks up speed atop him, and he wants to frown as he breathes a little heavier, irritated at how his body instinctively syncs with her rhythm.

_And this is all I will ever be._

"Look at me, Hans."

He finally forces himself to meet her eyes, her flushed face, her pink, parted lips—and when she gasps for air a moment later, suddenly still, he has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

She rolls off of him a few moments later, slipping back into her chemise as she faces the other side of the room. He follows suit, familiar with their routine.

"You may go now."

She doesn't bother giving him a parting glance - nor he one to her - as he leaves her chambers.

_I don't belong here._

The doors close softly behind him, and he sneers at the shadow they cast along the floor.

_It's not my place, after all._


	18. Target

**Author's Note: **Alternate Universe; you can choose which one. Based on a prompt from my partner-in-crime, yumi-michiyo: "You mistress of the night" (and named after her Helsa fluff fic, which you all should check out). Also inspired by the poem "The Moon" by Henry David Thoreau.

* * *

**Target**

_"Always in her proper sphere, she's mistress of the night."_

She looks up from the newspaper, lowering her glasses until they sit on the edge of her nose; when she can finally see him, she seems uninterested.

"Oh," she says, turning her attention back to the paper. "Good evening, Kristoff."

He pretends not to be disappointed by her lackluster reaction, and tips his hat to her.

"Anna," he returns. "Mind if I join you for a nightcap?"

She shrugs and gestures casually to the empty seat next to her. "Go ahead."

He smiles lightly, sliding onto the stool at the end and placing his hat on the bar in one smooth movement.

(He can tell she's ignoring him on purpose ... just like always.)

She's wearing the cherry red frames he likes, and they match her equally red lipstick, the color standing out against her pale hair (and even paler skin).

She glances at him - she must have noticed him staring - but not for long. "What are you having?" she asks.

His eyes widen. "You buying tonight?"

She doesn't address the question as she waves the bartender over. "Get this gentleman whatever he wants, Sven."

He shakes off his surprise, straightening the cuffs of his shirt under his jacket. "Just an old fashioned for me, please."

Sven grunts and leaves them alone once more, and she takes a sip of her drink, which he guesses is her usual gin rickey.

"Odd time to be reading the paper," he observes as the jukebox drones on in the background, playing a song that's ten years past its prime.

Her brow raises. "You know this is the only time of day I can," she replies.

His smile widens, and he taps the bar's surface just as his drink is placed in front of him. "I do know that," he acknowledges, and nods to Sven as he slides a single bill towards him. "But I still find it odd."

"You always say that," she remarks.

He blinks. "Say what?"

"That you find something I do - or say - 'odd,'" she clarifies, her lips pursing at the idea. "Why is that?"

It's his turn to shrug. "Just making an observation, Anna, the same way you like to do."

She snorts lightly at the suggestion. "Fine," she says, "I suppose I do that, from time to time."

He smirks. "Like when you told me that I should never wear pinstripes?"

"It makes you look like a mobster," she rebuts. "You even admitted it yourself."

"Yes," he says with a dramatic sigh, "after Olaf called me 'Capone' on the summer job. I remember."

She can't help but laugh a little at the retelling, and the rare sound makes his cheeks flush. Realizing this, he quickly downs the rest of his drink, his eyes darkening.

She stares at him in surprise. "Thirsty?"

He plasters on a grin. "Very."

She starts to wave Sven over again, but he puts his hand over hers, shaking his head. "I'm fine with just one tonight."

Her brow furrows in confusion. "But you just said—"

"I know," he interrupts, "but I'm fine."

He pauses for a moment, and she eyes him curiously; he still hasn't let go of her hand.

"Kristoff?"

"Take a walk with me," he says gently. "It's a beautiful night."

She looks down at where his fingers rest atop hers with suspicion, but doesn't withdraw.

"All right," she agrees after a moment. "Let's go."

* * *

They walk for what seems like hours through the brightly-lit streets downtown, the city park, and other wayward paths until they reach a quiet corner of a silent street, neither saying a word all the while.

The moon glimmers faintly through the clouds and brings out the golden color of her hair, previously dimmed by fluorescent lights, and he's sure he's never seen her as beautiful as she is right now.

"You're stalling."

His expression is unfazed. "I am," he agrees.

She stops, turning to look at him, and he meets her bemused gaze. "Why?"

He fights the urge to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. "Because I'll miss this."

A blush spreads across her cheeks; he's not sure if it's genuine, but he enjoys every drop of it, following its path from her cheeks down to her full, trembling lips.

"I don't like it when you go soft on me," she tells him, though she's unusually quiet.

He smiles half-heartedly. "I promise it won't happen again," he assures her. His meaning isn't lost on her as she stares at him suddenly, her blue eyes large and luminous.

"Tell me something."

"Anything."

"... what's your real name, Kristoff?"

He pauses.

"Hans."

"Hans," she repeats, slowly rolling his name over on her tongue, and he feels a heavy _thump _in his chest.

He swallows. "And yours?"

She pauses, and then smiles a little.

"Elsa," she says, and adds after a moment: "Anna was my sister."

He nods in understanding. "And she's...?"

"Gone," she clarifies with a faraway look. "Drowned in an ice skating accident when we were kids."

"I'm sorry," he responds automatically, touching her shoulder. He's never seen her quite like this before - distant, totally unreachable - and for the first time, he's not sure what else to say.

"It's not your fault," she tells him. "Anyway, I'll be joining her soon."

He chokes on a chuckle at her morbid joke. "You seem to be taking this well," he remarks.

She sighs. "I've been alone a long time, Hans," she admits. "I miss her."

His hand comes to rest on his holster as they round the corner of one dark street onto another. "Of course you do."

She stops before he does and rests her back gently against the brick wall of the building next to them; he knows she's already scanned the perimeters for any sign of passers-by, and he follows her lead.

He draws close to her until they're practically nose-to-nose, their arms winding around one another, and from the outside, they're the perfect picture of a couple meeting for a midnight rendezvous.

He presses the gun against her abdomen, and a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm sorry, Elsa."

* * *

He vaguely feels the press of her knuckles against his stomach, and then nothing at all for a moment.

But something suddenly cuts into him, _deep_, and there's something coming out of him as well—

_something red, red like the color of her lips, like the frames of those glasses she was wearing (the ones that he likes)_

—but he can't make sense of any of it, and then he's gasping for air, writhing in her embrace.

Her voice is faint in his ear as his vision blurs.

"No, Hans," she says, "you're not."

"What—"

"You're not sorry," she repeats, driving the knife in deeper, "and you never were."

He clutches to her with what little strength he has; she holds him close with all of hers.

_"'She does not wane,'" _she recites against his ear, _"'but my fortune—her rays do not bless.'"_

He chokes, and he can't see her anymore, but he can _feel _her inside of him.

(Twisting.)


	19. Duty

**Author's Note:** Based on a couple of prompts: "I can't" and "It's all my fault." An alternate take on what happened up in the mountains, after Hans and Weselton's men corner Elsa in the palace. Also inspired by watching way too much _Peaky Blinders _on Netflix (which is an amazing show that everyone should watch, seriously.)

* * *

**Duty**

"What... what have I done?"

It's not the first time he's seen dead bodies, but he can tell from the pallid color of her face, mute with dumb horror, that it is for her.

The Snow Queen of Arendelle is on her knees, staring at the rivers of blood slowly trickling out from the men she'd pinned to the wall of her palace. She moves to touch one as it runs by her, but it turns to ice - just like everything else - and she weeps bitterly.

(It suddenly reminds him of the tale of Midas, and he almost feels a little sorry for her.)

The air grows colder. "You were only defending yourself, Your Majesty," he tells her, cautiously moving towards her fallen figure. "They would've hurt you - _killed_ you, even - otherwise."

"But I'm a danger to Arendelle," she says through a sob, "to Anna, and to everyone." She adds, after a shudder: "And to myself."

He'd almost entirely forgotten about the younger princess by then, and hides a frown at the mention of her. It had been, after all, the girl's _insistence _on telling the Queen about their "engagement" straightaway that had gotten them all into this mess; now, it seems that he's the only one with any wherewithal to set things right again.

He keeps his voice gentle, as if he were speaking with a child (in many ways, he suspects she still is one). "If you would just stop the winter, bring back summer... _please_, Queen Elsa," he pleads, and kneels by her.

(Absently, he's glad she keeps freezing the blood from Weselton's men; he'd hate to have to go back to the castle with such unflattering stains on his clothes.)

She finally meets his eyes, and her expression is desperate. "Don't you see?" she asks, glancing at the men. The sight is enough to make her look sick and weak again. "I _can't_."

"I know," he says, drawing a surprised look from her. "You were never taught how to control it, were you?"

His eyes are glossy with kindness, understanding - _compassion_, even - as he softly takes her hands in his. She recoils immediately, and he nearly jerks back himself from the cold that runs all along his fingers—but he holds her steady after a moment, and she relents as her sobs wrack her small body.

"No," she replies in just above a whisper, her head hanging low between her shoulders. "Never." She pauses for a moment to look up at him, his meaning finally seeming to dawn on her. "You... do you think I can?"

He swallows a sigh of exasperation. "Of course," he tells her in the most reassuring, earnest tone he can muster. "You're not a monster, after all."

His words have the desired effect as she blinks at him, her mouth practically agape at the thought. "Not a... not a monster," she repeats disbelievingly. Her expression is wretched with confusion as she processes the idea. "But if I'm not, then... what am I?"

He pauses, and breathes.

(Something in her tortured look reminds him of himself as a boy, and the thought is enough to harden his resolve.)

"You're different, Elsa," he says slowly, and is encouraged when her hands relax further in his own. "You're _special_."

"I... I don't understand. My curse, it's—"

"It's not a curse," he cuts in, and grips her hands as tightly as he can manage without hurting her (not that he really could). "It's just another part of you. A _powerful _part of you."

She looks bewildered again at this, and he has to remind himself that patience is a virtue. He stares at her gravely to prove his belief, though it's not far from the truth. The impressive castle surrounding them, and the snow beast which guarded its exterior, were enough to convince him of that.

One look back at the handiwork of her powers, however, is enough to undo the efforts of his goodwill. "No, no," she says, withdrawing from him and shaking her head in a miserable way. "You're wrong about me, Prince Hans. This has never been anything but a _curse_," she repeats, full of self-loathing. "It has never done anything good for anyone, including me—and it never will."

"Because you won't _let_ it," he counters, frowning. "Because you've always believed it could only hurt people, and that's all it's ever done."

The statement is suggestive enough to make her shoulders stop shaking, and he stays close by her. Even if he's not touching her directly, he knows that she won't trust him unless she believes that he doesn't fear her.

(And of course he doesn't, because how can a man fear a wounded lamb?)

When she's calmed down a little, she finally looks up at him again. This time - to his relief - her gaze is less despondent, and more questioning. "How can you be so sure about all this?" she asks, a frown touching the corners of her lips. "You don't know me at all."

He smiles sadly, which peaks her interest (just as intended). "I don't," he admits, "but I understand well all the things you're feeling now - rejection, pain, anger, confusion - because I struggled with them for so many years myself." He pauses for effect, allowing her curiosity to build. "I'm the youngest of thirteen princes—the 'Unlucky One', as they call me at home." His eyes downcast, he adds: "I've spent my whole life running away from it."

She remains silent after the confession, though he can tell she understands what he's getting at—and that she feels some connection between them.

He draws a little closer - until they are nearly touching foreheads - and sees that tears are stinging at the corners of her eyes. However, they don't appear to be the result of her self-reproach, and he gives silent thanks to his contemptible childhood that he's able to bear this piteous Snow Queen without breaking the facade.

"I didn't know," she says, looking ashamed. "I'm sorry."

(He hates her pity even more than her pathetic innocence.)

He plasters on a smile. "Don't be sorry, Elsa," he says quietly. "Just let me take you back to your people."

Her brows furrow with apprehension. "But that's—they'll be furious with me," she protests, and snowflakes flurry around them in her nervous state. "Arendelle is still covered in snow, and I don't know how to fix it, and Anna..." She trails off, staring morosely at the floor; the change in mood, he notices, makes the snowflakes pause in mid-air. "I turned her away - I _hurt _her again - and I'm sure she hates me now." Her eyes close tightly in pain. "I can't bear to face them all!"

He's not sure what she means when she says she's "hurt" Anna; he assumes, though, that whatever happened could only work in his favor, and switches tactics. "But you _have _to, Elsa," he says firmly. "You are their Queen - they will forgive you - and you will figure out a way to bring back summer. As for Anna," he continues in a kinder tone, "she's your sister, and she will love you no matter what. In fact, she spoke of little else the night of your coronation, when I first met her."

She looks moved at this information - which, for once, he didn't have to make up out of whole cloth, as the young princess had nattered on for ages about her _dearest_ older sister - and appears, at last, to have forgotten about the dead men (now conveniently covered, he observes, by a layer of snow).

She is quiet for a while before speaking again. "I hope you're right," she says, swallowing. "I hope I can learn to control this cu—_power_."

"You will," he says, "because you must."

She nods after a pause, and then tries to stand. He offers her a helping hand, which she accepts with less reluctance than before. There is gratitude in her eyes when their gazes meet again, though she doesn't thank him—not yet, anyway.

They walk in silence to the already-open doors to the ice palace, and at its threshold, they look out together onto the spectacular view of Arendelle in winter: the fjord covered in ice, the forest below the North Mountain a sea of white. The sight allows him the chance to sigh, finally feeling some peace; she sighs as well, though he hears only resignation in hers.

It doesn't matter, though, how she feels anymore, because as long as he's able to stay at her side - to guide her, to calm her, to speak sweet words into her ear - he's confident that she'll only feel what he _wants _her to feel, and nothing more or less than that.

(And after that, when she's been tamed...)

He stares in wonder as she remakes the bridge of ice destroyed by her snow beast, frozen fractals swirling through the air with dazzling speed and beauty, and can only dream of what all that power might look like, and of what it could _do_, with proper training and encouragement.

"It's beautiful, Elsa," he says when she's finished, and this time it's not just to flatter her. He thinks he catches a glimpse of a smile at the edge of her mouth when she replies.

"Thank you."

He smiles in return, and gazes at the kingdom again some distance away. Now there was only the princess to whom he was supposedly betrothed to take care of—although, judging by the despairing tone of the Snow Queen's earlier confession, he suspects the matter might resolve itself.

(But you know what they say: if you want a thing done well, do it yourself.)


	20. Temptation

**Author's Note**: Based on a prompt: "Sea of darkness" (but also based on a conversation with yumi-michiyo, of course). The underwater breathing thing is taken from the film _Hook_, an oldie and goodie. Alternate Universe (sort of); this ended up being way longer than I anticipated.

* * *

**Temptation**

She finds herself at the water's edge.

It's the only place where she can find peace, or at least the promise of it, and the waves lap at her bare feet, gentler than usual today. She can't remember when she first started coming here, and has lost count of the number of times she's returned to this spot.

On every occasion, the water is comfortingly cold.

There's something about the way the tide rolls in and out that reminds her of the impermanence of everything, including herself. She's forcefully reminded of how little her own powers, or _curse_, matter.

(It couldn't save them, after all.)

Her expression turns impassive at that fleeting thought, and she is glad she is here, and not in the castle. There, the thought would turn and churn in her mind, tormenting her until she could hardly bear to face another person (like her sister) for fear that she would hurt them.

But here, it is rebuffed, and then silenced.

In this space, it is replaced with a soft, gauzy sound - almost _sweet_, she sometimes thinks - one that washes over her like the waves she watches from onshore, and even seems to reach into her body and engulf what remains of her heart. Whenever she leaves it, it feels close to what she guesses heartbreak must be like; in its absence, she craves it in the way that she imagines a drunkard lusts after the bottle.

And when the pain of separation becomes too great, she always finds a way to return, and to feel whole again.

* * *

As time passes, she wonders if the sound is changing.

Where before it had no shape to it - only the outline of warmth - she swears that it has slowly turned into something vaguely familiar.

(Like a song.)

It's not one that she knows, or anything that she can remember hearing in passing (not that she's been outside of the castle much, though she can hear the music float up from the town square to her room from time to time). The notes in it are strange and foreign, striking unusual chords, and sometimes even discomfiting ones.

But it is also beautiful, and it draws her in.

At first, she only takes a few steps into the water before realizing that the trail of her gown is drenched, and the air suddenly smells too strongly of salt. In those moments, she quickly retreats, unnerved by her trance... though not enough to keep her from coming back.

Then, when the song takes on a clearer form, almost carrying a sort of _tune_, she goes further in: waist-deep, sometimes, before she regains control of herself, patches of ice sputtering out from her gloved, soaking fingers. These instances disturb her more than she'd like to admit, and she walks back to the beach with a shiver running up and down her spine.

The sound, however, disappears as soon as she leaves, and she cannot find the slightest trace of it as she tries to find some explanation behind it all - the song, the trances, the _craving - _and she is maddened by the gap in her memories, raking over her mind again and again until she's nearly made herself sick from the effort.

She tries to avoid the obvious answer for a time, because it scares (and excites) her. She is afraid to return, to see, to _feel_... but most of all, to lose what little control she has left over her senses, and over her ability to harm.

But a part of her knows that she never had that control in the first place, and knows—

(There is nothing left but to go back.)

* * *

A feeling of intense calm rushes through her when she touches feet to sand, unparalleled to anything she has felt in a long, long time.

The swiftness of that gratification, however, also makes her shudder.

The sky is gray and pitiless, hardly an inspiring sight; and yet, as she draws closer to the water, the color transforms into a mosaic of pinkish, dappled hues, like the beginnings of a sunset (though it is hardly noontime).

She hesitates just before the edge, and for a moment the cloudy sky reappears, breaking the illusion.

And then she hears it.

The sound is soft and faraway at first, but it's enough to lower her defenses. Her gloves slip off as if they were never there, and then she's dipping one toe in, then another, and then her whole foot, followed shortly by the other. Some part of her is vaguely aware that she is moving closer, and _deeper_, but she ignores it.

The sound, after all, is now a song - _her_ song - and it is the most wonderful thing she's ever heard.

* * *

_"Why are you crying, little girl?"_

Her eyes flutter open, though she can't remember ever closing them—nor can she remember crying.

She blinks. _"I wasn't," _she replies. Frowning, she adds: _"And I'm not a 'little girl.' I just turned nineteen, in fact." _

She knows she's spoken those words, because her lips move, and the statement is accompanied by a faint memory from her recent birthday - persistent knocking on the door, followed by the sound of muffled weeping behind it - but her voice feels caught.

(As if it were suspended in thin air.)

In fact, her entire body feels that way - floating, like it does in her dreams - and moving any part of it is slow and difficult. Her vision, likewise, is murky, tinted blue-green, as if she is squinting with her nose right up to the spinning globe in her father's study.

_"You were, and you are," _the phantom voice counters, and it is oddly familiar in spite of her dulled senses. _"But I couldn't tell if it was from sadness, or from joy. Do you know?"_

Her gaze tightens a little, trying to center on the source of that sound; she wants to summon some annoyance at its teasing tone, but instead only feels a deep, warm contentment run through her veins, sparking along her skin and reaching to her fingertips.

(It feels like magic, but not like mine.)

_"I don't know," _she says, still unable to see it. She tries to swallow, but inhales nothing. _"Who are you?"_

An amused trickle of laughter answers her. _"I was someone once, like you," _the voice responds, its form becoming lower and smoother as it draws closer to her. _"But now I'm no one." _It pauses, and her heartbeat quickens a little as she feels a presence behind her. _"And who are you?"_

It's clear to her now, speaking just against her ear, that it is a _man's_ voice... or that it at least gives the appearance of such. The thought would cause her face to flush under normal circumstances, or perhaps ice to crawl out from beneath her in discomfort.

Here, however (wherever "here" is), she is merely curious—or, she supposes, enchanted. _"Princess Elsa of Arendelle," _she replies. _"I will be Queen someday, too."_

_"Oh, royalty. I used to know a few of those," _it (he) remarks, _"though you don't seem like them."_

She blushes, and then catches a fleeting glimpse of it (him) as he briefly passes in front of her, a swirl of red and blue and green. The sight reminds her of the color of the sky as she touched the water, and her eyes widen.

_"You're the one who's been singing to me—"_

Her speech is cut off, and though she wants to gasp, she can't. Its (no, _his_) mouth is covering hers, softly pushing her lips apart, _breathing_ into her; the sensation pleasantly burns her throat all the way down to her stomach, and settles there.

* * *

When they part, she can see him clearly.

"You... you're a..."

"Siren, is what I think your kind calls us," he finishes, smirking. His eyes are bright green, sparkling like seaglass, and they regard her lips for a moment. "Did you like my song, princess?"

Her gaze flickers down to see a seaweed-colored, fish-like tail below his bare torso, and somehow the sight is a comforting one.

(I'm not the only one.)

She presses a finger to her bottom lip, and reddens. "Yes—" she begins to say, and then pauses, irritated. She doesn't realize that she can hear her own voice again. "Why did you kiss me?"

His red hair gently waves back as he laughs, drawing her in closer. Her shock keeps her from struggling (much). "I'd forgotten that your kind call it that," he replies, though his knowing look says otherwise. "How odd."

She frowns, though her heart beats furiously against his (if he even has one; she's not sure how it works with these creatures). "You didn't answer my question."

He raises an eyebrow. "You would've drowned, otherwise," he tells her as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Your kind can't breathe down here."

(Down here?)

Her brow goes crooked, uncomprehending. "What do you mean? I don't understand..."

And then, suddenly, she does.

He holds her steady in the water, and she doesn't panic. Instead, she simply stares at him, wide-eyed, watching the slow undulations of his hair in a sea of blue, sunlight filtering down and illuminating the freckles dotted across his face. She glances down and sees the transparent sleeve of her dress billowing lightly against his arm, her skin still her own beneath it.

Her gaze meets his, startled at the revelation. "Why did you bring me here?"

He frowns. "I thought that was what you wanted," he says. "You came to me, after all."

Her grip tightens on his arms. "I don't know what I wanted. I just..." she stops, blushing again. "I just liked to hear you sing."

He stares at her as if she is a lost child. "None of your kind can hear me sing unless they want to," he says, "and usually only in difficult times." He pauses, then adds: "I assumed it was the same for you, princess."

The pink fades from her cheeks, and she withdraws from him a little.

(I wanted it.)

She remembers that awful _craving _she felt for so long, and though she can see its source now so clearly in front of her - those curious green eyes poring into her in a way that both unsettles and delights her - she realizes that it was not simply the temptation of his song that brought her back.

"I didn't want to hear it anymore," she says, hardly aware of her own speech. "It reminded me of them."

His hands trail smoothly along her arms. "What? Who?" he asks.

Part of her thinks he knows already, but she tells him anyway. "My sister's knocking on the door," she explains. "She used to ask me to come out and play - to build snowmen - but stopped after a while, when I didn't answer." Her eyes tighten. "Then our... our parents died, and she tried again, from time to time," she continues, her face half-lit by murky sunlight, "but I still wouldn't answer her."

A pause. "They died at sea," he guesses (_knows_), and she nods.

"Yes," she confirms, "at sea." After a moment, she makes the connection: "That's why I heard your song."

"Then you _were _crying from sadness," he observes pointedly. "Your tears fell like ice."

For a moment, she doesn't know what he's talking about; then, she remembers, and her hand floats up to touch her right cheek lightly. Of course, by then, there's no trace of it left, but by his remark - _your tears fell like ice_ \- she knows that he's telling the truth.

"That's my curse—the ice," she clarifies. "I can't control it very well when I'm feeling sad."

(Or ever.)

He caresses his hands in hers, smiling generously. "That is no curse, princess. It is a _gift_."

She's distracted by the sensuous, otherworldly touch long enough to think she didn't hear him properly - _gift?_ \- and then looks at him in disbelief. "It can't be," she protests, and a twinkle of pain stabs at her heart even under this siren's spell, "because it has already hurt someone—my sister."

"A gift isn't always kind, but it _always_ has a purpose," he replies evenly, placing her head on his chest, comforting her. "One day, you will understand yours, just as I came to understand mine."

She recalls him saying something - _I was someone once, like you_ \- and then his lips are on hers again, breathing into her, lingering there even after the act is done and her cheeks are flush with life.

She barely manages to speak through the heat that shoots up her body. "What is your gift?" she asks. Collecting herself, she presses: "Who were you, before this?"

He sighs, running his fingers through her long, light blonde locks, long since come undone from the tight braid she normally keeps them in. "That's a story for another day, princess," he tells her, smiling when she looks disappointed. "A long one, at that. Full of sadness and regret, like yours."

She doesn't like that answer. "You said you knew royalty like me... were you one as well?"

His lip twitches. "You're persistent," he comments, "and yes. I was. A prince, in fact—the last in a long line of them." His smile darkens briefly. "Unwanted, as such."

(Unwanted.)

It sounds familiar to her, if for different reasons, and she cannot contain her curiosity. "And how did you become... like this?"

His smile, unchanging, suddenly strikes her as cold. "I begged for death after a shipwreck at sea," he replies. "And then they found me - the sirens - and the rest, as they say," he continues, his lips pealing back into a grin, "is history."

She thinks she'd find that expression handsome, under other circumstances. As things stand, however, it's too aloof for her liking.

"But I thought... I thought that sirens—"

"Kill you? Steal your soul?" he finishes, and chuckles. "Yes, I suppose that's what your kind believes. The reality is quite different."

A thought strikes her, and she glances up at him, surprised. "You... you intend to let me go, then?"

He taps her beneath her chin. "For now."

When she frowns in discomfort, he pauses for effect; as he cups the side of her face, her unhappy expression slips away. "I won't hurt you," he says, and his green eyes gleam beautifully. "Not until you want me to." His words are soft against her unguarded ear. "Even then, you won't feel any pain."

She breathes out a sigh, or something close to that. "Just like your song."

"Yes," he nods, "just like that."

She gives him a curious (and scared) look, but cannot help from leaning closer into his hand, soaking in its strange warmth. "But when will I know when I... when I want you?"

He kisses her other cheek. "You'll know," he tells her, "and you'll come."

She isn't so sure, and he can see the uncertainty in her face—but he merely smiles, drawing her in until their lips are nearly touching again.

"But now it's time for you to go home, princess."

* * *

She awakens - not to the sound of waves crashing against the shore like she expects, but to the that of gentle knocking on the door - and she has no memory of how she returned to the castle, and certainly none of how she ended up back in her own bed.

_"Elsa?"_

The shock of hearing that voice is enough to send spirals of frost shooting from her fingertips, one hitting the door, and she can practically picture her sister recoiling on the other side of it. She clutches her hands to her chest, breathing hard... only to realize that she isn't wearing her gloves.

Her eyes dart around the room, seeking them out from the panic of habit; then, a hazy recollection enters her mind of a pair left by the ocean, slowly being swallowed by the tide, and her heartbeat slows.

She gently lowers her hands into her lap, and looks down at them.

(It is a _gift_.)

In that moment, they no longer appear only as offending objects capable of great harm. Now, there is something else there.

(And it _always _has a purpose.)

She curls her fingers into her palms one after the other, mesmerised, and then out again. Her eyes look up at the door.

"Anna?"

A small sound of surprise, and then a long pause—long enough to make her wonder if she's being foolish in feeling hopeful. She gathers up her courage, walks to the door, and opens it.

She's greeted by the tight embrace of her sister, the young girl's sobs muffled against her shoulder. She holds her steady, stroking her red hair (just like he did hers, under the waves), and cannot help but sigh with relief. "Elsa... oh, I've missed you so much!" the girl babbles through her tears, clinging desperately to her older sister.

She adds after a time, in a smaller voice: "Please don't shut me out again."

The princess draws her in closer. "I won't," she reassures her. "I promise."

(One day, I will understand it.)

Her bare hands grip her sister's arms fiercely; she's afraid to let go.

(And I'll know.)

Her breath hitches, and she shudders.

(And I'll come.)


End file.
